


Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

by ruttopoika



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andres is somewhat a dick but what else is new, Angst, Consensual Safe But Not Sane, Dom/sub, Humiliation kink, M/M, Martin is depressed and hates himself like usual, Master/Servant, Mention Of Homophobia, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruttopoika/pseuds/ruttopoika
Summary: Andrés always makes sure to praise Martín as much as possible, comfort him with both his words and touches, and usually that is just what Martín needs, to be held and reminded of his worth. But there are times, when Martín can’t take it. Sometimes the guilt is so overpowering that every indication of kindness is too much for him to bear.*or: Martín needs therapy but instead copes with his problems with sex
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao I just wanted to write a fic where Andrés steps on Martín. Been feeling quite depressed for a few days so it came out like this. I'm better now, though, writing this actually helped.
> 
> I hope I used the tags correctly ehehe this is the first time I've posted anything explicit so ehhh I'm a lil nervous ;;w;;

The Professor’s gang got out of the Bank of Spain as victors. They achieved their mission – they got both Río and the gold without killing anyone, and almost all of them were now scattered across the world, living their lives anonymously, successfully hiding from the police. All of that had happened under Martín’s leadership, according to his plan. And only just after they had escaped, while they got on the Professor’s boat, Martín had found out that Andrés – the person he had loved the most, the person who had left him, the person he had thought was dead – was alive and well, and had helped the gang from outside the bank with the Professor, making the escape possible. And not only that, Andrés was also willing – eager, even – to take Martín back into his life, as a best friend and this time, something more as well. Basically Martín had made the impossible possible. He had survived the suicide mission, he was going to have a relationship he had never thought he could have and on top of that, he was filthy rich, now. No more living in a cheap flat in the slums of Sicily, no more drinking the crappiest red wine there was, no more instant noodles and mac’n’cheese made of the worst, most processed Edam there was, no sir. They were alive and kicking and more rich than ever and it was mostly thanks to Martín.

All that and Martín still couldn’t stop hating himself, loathing his very being.

Considering everything he’s been through, that doesn’t come as a surprise. As a teenager, he was kicked out of home for being gay. He had spent a decade of his life thinking that he was not enough for the man he loved. He had stolen, he had watched people’s lives being taken in front of him, few of those taken by himself. In his latest heist, he had been partially at fault for the death of one of their comrades. And he had made another comrade fall in love with him and made vague promises of a future, of a relationship, of family, only to break the other man’s heart. Unlike Andrés, who probably hasn’t ever felt even the slightest sting of remorse over his own actions, Martín knows how to feel guilt. And that guilt is something that consumes him, eats him from the inside every minute of every hour of every day. Especially now that they’ve settled down and are living a relatively peaceful life with no heists, no robberies, no great adventures, free of the constant adrenaline high. And while it does feel like a welcome change in Martín’s life, it also leaves way too much time for him to think and to feel, to try and process everything inside his head only to fail again and again, not being able to move on and finding himself sobbing alone in the bed, hiding from Andrés, so fucking ashamed.

He never lets Andrés see his tears, but the other man can read the signs afterwards; see the puffy, reddened eyelids, the wet glimmer in Martín’s pupils and the flushed cheeks shining from the moisture, hear the smallest sniffles Martín tries to conceal. At those moments, Andrés proposes to take it into the bedroom, not with words but with touches and glances. He places his hand on the small of Martín’s back for a moment too long, looks at him with intent and raises his left eyebrow suggestively. Never pressuring, only asking if Martín wants Andrés to help him forget, drown his sorrows in the endless ocean of pleasure, and Martín always says yes, because he’d rather suffocate from bliss than despair.

Usually Andrés embraces him gently, caresses his whole body with kisses and whispers against his skin how he is a good boy, how he is loved, how no one else has ever made Andrés feel so good and how everything will be okay. Andrés always makes sure to praise Martín as much as possible, comfort him with both his words and touches, and usually that is just what Martín needs, to be held and reminded of his worth. But there are times, when Martín can’t take it. Sometimes the guilt is so overpowering that every indication of kindness is too much for him to bear. It just makes him feel worse, because in his heart he feels, he _knows_ that he doesn’t deserve any of that. And after many conversations, safety precautions and confirmations, they have decided together that some days they have to address the problem through a different route. This is one of those days.

”Kneel.”

Berlin’s voice is cold and commanding and Palermo can’t – nor does he want to – do anything but obey. They are both wearing their red jumpsuits and black boots, the exact same ones they once wore during their times as the leaders of their heists. Andrés and Martín have left the scene so Berlin and Palermo could make their appearances. Neither of them really separates their characters as robbers from their day-to-day normal life personas, but Martín has requested this. Palermo reminds Martín of his worst mistakes, the darkest, most detestable side within him, which is the point of this play. Martín needs to, he wants to remember, all of it, so he can accept his punishment from Berlin.

Berlin, who is his God.

”Look at you,” Berlin muses. He’s sitting on a comfortable armchair, legs spread and head held high, like a king on his throne. Under his bum there’s a soft pillow covered with silk, intricate gold embroideries peeking from under his thighs. He takes a silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, puts one between his lips, lights it and inhales. The smoke comes out of his mouth with a sound that’s a mixture of a sigh and a groan, while he beckons Palermo to come closer, which he does. Palermo crawls on the hard floor, stopping right in front of his master and looks on his left, his eyes following Berlin’s pointing finger. Right next to Berlin’s foot there’s a little jar and a clean rag. Palermo picks them up without questions, which makes Berlin’s lips curl in an approving smile.

”You know what to do, don’t you, _querido_?” Berlin asks, the tone of his voice changing the endearment to an insult. He flicks the cigarette in his hand with a careless facade, but both of them know that the ash dropping on Palermo’s face is intentional.

Palermo doesn’t say anything – this game of theirs is still fairly new and the rules are hard to remember when one’s mind is hazy with arousal and anxiety – so Berlin has to grip his jaw and force Palermo to look up and meet the dark eyes of his deity. ”What do you do, when I ask you a question?”

”I… I answer, my lord,” Palermo says quietly, feeling his cheeks warm up when the delicous feeling of pure shame starts to make a home in his heart.

”And what did I ask you?”

”You… you asked, if I know what to do, my lord.”

”So? How is it? Do you know what I’m expecting of you, you worthless piece of shit?”

”I do.”

”You do what?”

”I do, I know, my lord.”

”Get on with it, then.”

And Palermo does. He opens the jar with shaky hands, the strong stench of shoe polish filling his nostrils. He takes a bit of the waxy substance on his fingers and spreads it on the tip of Berlin’s boot, while the other man look’s down at him, taking lazy sucks from his cigarette and lets the ash mix into Palermo’s hair. When Palermo takes the rag in his hand, wiping his fingers quickly before starting to properly shine Berlin’s shoes, Berlin has the audacity to grin wickedly and grope his own crotch gently, coaxing his cock into a half hard state. He wouldn’t have guessed that seeing his lover like that, on his knees, ready to serve his every order, would do this to him, but it does. Palermo’s head turned down in submission, the man not daring to speak or even look at Berlin without permission… Just the sight itself is enough for Berlin to get turned on.

At first Andrés was a little reluctant to engage in this. He didn’t mind the thought of being dominant in bed – he was that already most of the time – but saying hurtful things, insulting Martín like that, he just didn’t think he could ever be into it. Andrés wasn’t against kinks at all, but abuse wasn’t his thing, not physical, not mental. It took Martín some time to convince Andrés that it wouldn’t be abuse, since he himself was asking it. ”It would be just like a play, you know, just acting,” Martín had said, and Andrés had finally complied, on the condition that they would make strict rules and that Martín would promise to always use the safeword when necessary.

It’s not like Andrés was ever uncomfortable, though. He just thought he wouldn’t get off at this. But oh, how wrong he had been. He has always loved to be worshiped and adored, that much is true, but this kind of approach makes him feel a totally different kind of powerful. He can say whatever, the most horrible things he can imagine, keep pushing his lover more and more, and Martín keeps bending, takes it all, wants it, even. The knowledge that Martín loves him so much that he’s willing to be humiliated like this by Andrés, it strokes his ego just the right way, makes him realize the sheer power he holds over the other man, he feels so important and special and it makes his mind spin. Nothing has ever compared to this feeling and he loves every second of the experience.

Palermo moves on to clean Berlin’s other shoe, but the master has other plans. With an evil smirk on his face, Berlin drops the still burning cigarette stump on his polished boot. Palermo stops his ministrations and turns to look at the ash stains on the shining leather. The stains are barely visible, but Palermo knows what they mean: consequences.

”Look at what you’ve done now.”

Berlin’s voice is quiet but the tone oozes threats and loathing. He snuffs the stump out with his foot and leans forward, grabbing Palermo by the collar so their faces are only a few inches away from each other. Of course they both know Palermo didn’t do anything wrong, but in this room, at this very moment, Berlin is the law and his words are the ultimate truth. The intensity in Berlin’s eyes makes Palermo shiver in fear and excitement.

After few seconds filled with tension, the base of Berlin’s boot meets Palermo’s chest, firmly pushing the other man away to the floor. Palermo watches as his master lights another cigarette and stands up, slowly stepping towards him. For a moment Berlin just towers over him, Palermo can hear him _tch_ and sees him shake his head before suddenly Berlin literally steps on his chest. There’s not enough force for it to hurt, but Palermo feels the pressure, even more so when Berlin bends his knee and leans on it with his arms. Palermo’s breathing gets more shallow as Berlin’s weight crushes his lungs. He doesn’t feel like choking – Berlin knows what he’s doing after all – but the amount of air he’s able to get is only barely enough to keep him conscious.

”Here I thought you would be a good boy, that you would serve your master well,” Berlin says, his smile dripping venom. He takes a deep breath through his cigarette and proceeds to blow the smoke on Palermo’s face, causing the other man to cough, tears forming in his eyes. ”But you can’t even manage one simple request without fucking it up. Once again, you’ve proved yourself to be completely useless.”

”I’m so sorry, my lord,” Palermo whimpers, trying his best not to squirm underneath his master. He can feel the throbbing between his legs getting more and more overwhelming with every word that leaves Berlin’s mouth.

”You’re sorry?” Berlin laughs, throwing his head back. ”Oh, Palermo, por favor, you really think that changes anything? I still have to put up with you every fucking day. It’s hard for me to even look at anyone as worthless as you. Do you know how hard this is for me? I still keep you here, from the goodness of my heart and nothing else. If I wasn’t so kind, so merciful, I would have thrown you out already. Like a dog.”

And then Berlin is on his knees, thighs framing Palermo’s head, crotch above the other man’s chin. He zips open his red jumpsuit, uncovering the grey shirt and the expensive Versace boxers made of satin. As he pulls his cock out, Palermo opens his mouth, showing how the saliva is glistening on his tongue already, but Berlin just raises his eyebrows at that and scoffs.

”Greedy, now, are you?” he says, taking the last bits of nicotine from his cigarette before throwing it away. ”You really think you deserve to have this?”

”I-I…” Palermo mumbles, desperately wanting to close his lips around Berlin’s shaft, but the other man doesn’t let him.

”Close your mouth. You have no right to taste me, not after being such a failure. You should feel grateful that I even let you look at my marvelous cock.”

”I… I’m grateful… Thank you, my lord…”

Palermo knows that in reality, he needs counseling instead of whatever this is. He knows that this act might actually be counteractive to his process of trying to recover from his chronic state of depression and insecurity, but right now he doesn’t care about any of that. Even if this what they call an unhealthy coping mechanism, he doesn’t care, because lying there, feeling the wooden floor uncomfortably hard under his shoulder blades and not being able to take his eyes off the flushed member Berlin is stroking above his face… All of that makes Palermo feel like he has finally found his place in the world. That this is what he was born for, it’s all he’s good for, really. And he knows it isn’t a particularly good way of thinking, but it soothes him, makes his anxiety disappear at least for this one, glorious moment, cause for once he feels like it’s okay to be worthless.

Berlin knows all of that, too, but he doesn’t care, either. Ever the hedonist, he ranks his own gusto higher than his companion’s mental health. Pleasuring himself with lazy strokes, he makes sure to graze Palermo’s lips with the tip of his cock, teasing the other man mercilessly, keeping Palermo’s favorite treat so close without letting him indulge. Palermo presses his lips together so tightly his mouth is nothing but a thin line. All of his instincts are telling him to do the complete opposite, but he knows that if he as much as lets the tip of his tongue peek out, he wouldn’t get the permission to come. Palermo won’t lapse, no matter how much Berlin tries to make him, and when the older man finally starts stroking himself frantically, his loud moans going straight to Palermo’s groin, he smiles approvingly, his eyes softening.

”Close your eyes,” is the only warning Palermo gets before Berlin starts spurting his load on Palermo’s face. There’s traces of Berlin’s orgasm on Palermo’s nose, cheeks, forehead and even eyelids, and damn if that isn’t the dirtiest, filthiest, most sinful, downright _best_ feeling Palermo has ever experienced.

For a while Andrés just sits there, panting, looking down at the used face of his lover. Suddenly he cups Martín’s cheeks and leans down to press a gentle kiss on the other man’s forehead.

”You did well,” he whispers, the tone of his voice so caring it makes Martín’s heart melt. Tears start to stream down his cheeks, but Andrés just wipes them off with the cumstains, using the sleeve of his red jumpsuit. He moves off Martín, sitting down next to his head, and beckons the other man come to him, which he does. Martín sits up and shifts closer so that he’s straddling Andrés’ lap.

”May I?” Martín asks under his breath. Andrés nods, hugs the other man close and peppers Martín’s hair with soft kisses, stroking the strands. Martín leans in, presses his face in Andrés’ chest and whines when Andrés lifts his thigh a little, settling it between Martín’s legs and against his crotch. Martín starts to frot, his movements already fast, cause he’s been close for a while now. It doesn’t take him even two minutes to release, sobbing through it, hearing Andrés whisper words of encouragement and praise. ”You’re doing so good”, ”I love you”, ”I’m proud of you”, ”you’re so beautiful like this” and finally ”come for me, cariño”.

Andrés’ chest is wet from tears and snot and drool, but, for once, he doesn’t mind. In moments like these, the only thing he cares about is the knowledge that he’s the only one who has the ability to break Martín Berrote and put the pieces back together.

The only thing Martín cares about is to be able to go to bed without crying himself to sleep. And if this arrangement is what helps them get what they want, it might not be so bad after all. At least, for the time being.


End file.
